Dark at the End of the Day
by Imogen74
Summary: A story that begins post fall. It then leads on to a new case for Sherlock & John, while they grapple with the many changes that occurred as a result of the fall.
1. Chapter 1

Even when things are at their most dire, he knows there are a few he can count on. Why? Because that's the way it's always been.  
Taken for granted, perhaps, but always there. That's why, when he felt the pang of desperation, he knew exactly where to go.  
His mind, that thing he always believed, told him that she would help. He knew this, because he saw what she felt, read it in every expression she wore. To approach John would be a mistake, much as he knew it would hurt him. So he went to Bart's, without any doubt of success.

Drained as he was, he looked at Molly. He had never been so exhausted in his life - feeling a slave to his physicality, he smiled.  
"Thank you, Molly. I believe I'm feeling better."  
"But you look terrible. Where will you go?" Molly was concerned. She was pretty sure that she'd just broken about a million laws, & her judgement, well, that too left something to be desired. Her primary concern at present, however, was the broken figure of Sherlock Holmes that sat before her. They hadn't discussed anything further than the cadaver swap, & she realized that the fall had taken an immense toll on him. She had never seen anything like it. He wasn't himself, & being the warm soul she was, didn't want to think about him in this state, wandering about, lost & alone.  
"I'm fine. Thanks. I ought to be going. Can't risk being found out."  
"I - you can stay at my flat. It isn't much. But at least you'll be safe & hidden."  
Sherlock moved, felt the soreness in every muscle. The lab was dark. He had been there all day - well into the night. He knew that the reporters, emergency officials, John, had all left.  
He thought for a moment, but decided against it.  
He looked severely at Molly, to let her know he was in earnest.  
"No. It's best if I lay low a bit. Can't put you out any more than I already have done. Molly, I want you to go home. I want you to forget everything that transpired here today. Deny everything. Understand?"  
She nodded.  
Bit her lip.  
Looked away.  
"Sorry...I...dunno. I'm just sorry. Here." She handed him an ice pack. He took it. As he did, his hand took hold of hers, & he bent down, kissing it.  
At that, he got up, & left her there. Alone.  
A solitary tear fell from her eye, & she got ready to go home, after an excruciating day.


	2. Chapter 2

The night was, for all accounts, not horrible. Chilly enough to make him wish that he was in his flat, but not so awful to make an attempt to go back to it. He decided to seek out the comforts of the network he prized so dearly, & bide some time before scoping out Baker Street for any hit men.  
The days were long. The nights, even longer. Slowly, his wounds healed, & he began to think clearly once more. His flat seemed safe enough, John took to coming & going with greater frequency. A good sign. Lestrad, never in much danger, was carrying on well from what he could observe. He noticed John taking to visiting St Bart's, which was curious, & for a moment wondered if he suspected, or if Molly had lost her resolve & blabbed. Not likely, but possible.

After a month of such a life, Sherlock decided he might pop into a pub after watching John enter the hospital once more.  
He stepped in. The pub was dark, there was a band playing. Smoke, everywhere. _So, if I wish to smoke, I need to develop an alcohol problem. Brilliant_. He went up to the bar, configured centrally to the space, & sat at a stool. The keep came over to him. A large man, bald, with ridiculous facial hair. Sherlock winced.  
"Problem?" Asked the keep.  
"Aside from your facial hair? None."  
He stared at Sherlock, unamused.  
"I'll have a pint of whatever that is there." He gestured toward another glass a few feet to his right dismissively.  
The pint arrived, & he sipped it. Awful. What the hell is this?  
"If I wanted a pint of piss, I'd have requested one."  
"You requested, your majesty, what was in that pint there. And there you have it."  
Sherlock considered. He thought of Mycroft, & what he had usually drank. Scotch._ We are brothers, perhaps we might have inherited the same taste buds._  
"I'll take a scotch. On the rocks."  
Without preamble, the keep delivered the honey colored beverage, & whisked away the pint. Sherlock drank it deeply. It burned, but not in an unpleasant sort of way. _I'll take nicotine & narcotics over this any day._  
He scanned the scene, taking it in. Most of those in attendance were a sad lot, poor, avoiding their problems with the benefit of escapism. Not unlike Sherlock. He caught a glimpse of himself in some glass on the inside of the bar. Thin. Tired, sallow- skinned. He decided he would return, for he couldn't do much without his phone, his books, his blogger.  
In another week, once he was certain John & Mrs. Hudson were perfectly safe, he'd go back.  
The band stopped playing, & his notice caught the singer. Female, dressed in black leather. Tall-ish, shoulder length curly hair. She had a look about her, different from those others at the pub. Sherlock couldn't put his finger on it. _Tired. Need some work. Get my mind going again._  
He paid his tab, left a skimpy tip, & left.

Always the gentleman, Sherlock Holmes waited until he was quite certain John & Mrs. Hudson were asleep before going back. Around 12:30 in the morning, he picked the lock - for all their care to keep safe, it was really a simple task - & ascended the stairs. Nothing had been altered. He looked about, scanning the sitting room & it's contents. He grabbed a glass from the kitchen, went to the sofa, & lit his cigarette...he inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine rush to his head, slumped further in the sofa, & sighed.


	3. Chapter 3

He hit the floor before Sherlock knew what had happened. Although not a shocking reaction, it was a tad more severe than he was expecting. Mrs. Hudson needed to get some smelling salts to fully revive him.  
"John? Are you alright?"  
John Watson looked up through his dazed eyes & shrieked. Surely, this wasn't who he thought it was. Surely his eyes were deceiving him. He had buried Sherlock Holmes. Buried him, in the ground. Saw him jump.  
He got up, & retreated to the chair,  
"Mrs. Hudson?"  
"Yes, dear?"  
"Am I hallucinating?"  
"That depends on what you see."  
"Is Sherlock Bloody Holmes standing right there? Or am I barking?"  
"No. He's there. Can't believe it myself."  
"Wh - how can you be so calm? You were there! At his funeral! He's standing right there!"  
"Well, dear, when you've seen as much as I have, & lived as long, you'll learn that nothing is terribly shocking. How about a nice cuppa? Some biscuits, too, then?"  
John nodded, staring blankly at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled at Mrs. Hudson & thanked her.  
Sherlock stood there a long moment. "Well, John. Feeling better?"  
"Am I...explain yourself. Now. Explain what in the hell you're doing here. Alive. Now."  
"Really, I thought you'd be more pleased. " John didn't answer. "Alright. You thought you saw me fall. I never hit the ground. I landed in a truck filled with textiles parked on the sidewalk, & it drove away. Simple, really. Just a few bruises."  
"A few..."  
"Stop repeating everything I say, John. It's tiresome. Like an echo."  
"But they buried you! They buried...hang on. Molly. You swapped a body from Bart's morgue."  
"Catching on nicely."  
"So...Molly has known all these weeks?"  
Sherlock nodded.  
"She knew, & never said a word. All these weeks. I was there, so...much. Never a word."  
"Yes, about that. Why were you at Bart's so often?"  
"Why was I..."  
"You're doing it again."  
"Because. You were dead. Dead, Sherlock. Mycroft isn't really, well, the best sort of company to keep. I needed to get out. Molly was a sympathetic ear. and then there there was Mary..."  
At that, Mrs Hudson walked in.  
"Ah, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Lovely."  
"You're welcome. Just trying to make up for donating all of your things..."  
Sherlock smiled & said, "Not at all. Mycroft will be replacing it, after the horrific manner in which he treated my personal information. He owes me."


	4. Chapter 4

Her name was Inas. That's what she told those who asked. A name chosen by herself, a name that spoke to her. "Wife of the moon." She'd never be a mans wife. Never a woman's, either, so she'd be betrothed to the moon.  
She had forsaken her identity long ago. Though her new name suggested something exotic, she was really nothing of the sort. She exuded a sad confidence, mostly because she had nothing to lose. She had already lost everything that mattered.  
Now was the time. Now that she knew where he was, she knew who to go to.

About a week had passed on Baker Street since his return when John finally brought it up.  
"Sherlock. I need to talk to you about something."  
"Did you see this in the Times? Impossible. How is it that so many people can be so utterly stupid?"  
"Sherlock. I'm moving out."  
This stopped him. He looked up at John, a bit confused.  
"Alright. You have my attention."  
"Right. Well, it's Mary, see. I - uh, well...I think it's time we moved in together."  
Sherlocks expression did not change. He stared at his friend. A million things ran through his mind at once, though he hid it astonishingly well.  
"I see."  
"That's it, then?"  
Sherlock smiled. "What would you like me to say? If I said what's on my mind, you'll punch me in the face, which will lead me to retaliate, & then much more unpleasantness will ensue."  
"Why? What's wrong with Mary?"  
"She smiles too much."  
"She what?"  
'Nevermind. It won't do to dwell on this. You're free to go. I'm simply one flat mate short."  
"You're something. You know? Molly likes her. Everyone does."  
"Precisely my point."  
At that, a voice was heard downstairs. Female. Unrecognizable to the inhabitants above. Mrs. Hudson was heard directing her upstairs.  
"Ah." Said Sherlock. "New client."

The woman was dressed completely in black, every inch. She had black boots, black overcoat, black eye makeup, black nail polish. She entered the room with an air of confidence, with thinly veiled melancholy that permeated her presence.  
She smiled at the two men.  
"I hope I'm not interrupting."  
Her accent was a mix, mostly British, but a hint of others in her speech, as though she had travelled a great deal.  
John looked at the lady, a bit struck by her appearance.  
"No. Please, come in."  
She entered completely, looked around, & smiled at the skull on the mantle.  
"I'll be careful not to upset either of you. I rather like my skull where it's at."  
John laughed, & murmured something about decor taste.  
"How can we help you?" John said, looking at Sherlock. The detective hadn't said a word, but continued to look at her curiously.  
"Either you recognize me, or you're put off by my smoking. I hope it's the former, for I was just going to ask for an ashtray."  
"We have met, then?" Sherlock was dumbfounded. He never forgets when he meets someone.  
"No. I saw you, though, when you came to the pub."  
John shot a glance at Sherlock.  
"You saw me?" And then he remembered. The singer. The one that didn't quite fit in with everyone else.  
"Yes. I sing for that band playing when you happened in."  
John looked at both of them. "Sorry, what? You were at a pub? You don't drink."  
"I had one drink. Waiting for you to leave Bart's."  
"Spying on me, then? Lovely."  
The lady appeared amused by the transaction. "Inas. Pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes." She was holding her hand out to be shaken.  
"Rather unusual name. Family name?" John hadn't forgotten his manners.  
"No. It means..."  
"Wife of the moon," Sherlock finished.  
"Yes. Precisely. Inas Inverness. I'm here to seek help. I require, well, your service."  
"I've heard your name...where was it? Is your band famous?" John was racking his brain for the source of the familiarity.  
"Hardly. No, I'm a writer."  
"Writer? Any good?"  
"Poet. And yes, quite good."  
Sherlock then moved from his fixed spot & went to the bookcase. He spent a small amount of time looking through the volumes until he spotted the one he sought. He pulled it, & handed it to Inas.  
"Ah, yes. Well done. That's me, then, Mr. Watson."  
Sherlock put his hands in his pocket & stood in front of Inas Inverness.  
"Well," he was growing tired of the lack of point making. "How is it a poet/singer is in need of a detective?"  
"Yes, the reason for my calling. Well, it's best if I give you a short but thorough glimpse of my sordid background. You don't mind, do you?"  
"Does it have anything to do with the case?"  
"Everything."  
Sherlock didn't like stories. Didn't care for poetry, either. The volume of contemporary poetry was a gift from Mycroft to educate him on British culture. Yet, he wasn't ready to dismiss this woman just yet. She looked the way he felt for six weeks while in hiding.  
"Alright, then. Lets have it."  
Inas leaned against the table where the laptop sat, & began.


	5. Chapter 5

Inas sighed, she looked suddenly heavy & pale. More pale, if possible, than her skin already looked against the black of her dress.  
She lit a cigarette, which Sherlock took in, literally, & began her story.  
"I grew up in Derbyshire. Pastoral, perfect. The second of five children. It was, well, like living a fairy tale. When I was sixteen, my father fell into bad times. Nearly bankrupt, he needed fast money. He borrowed from...nefarious people. He found he couldn't pay back the debt, & they sent people to dispose of my dad & my family. It was mid June. Around midnight there was a disturbance. I went downstairs & found my parents dead. The men there, they hardly spoke. They hit my head, I fell, & awoke to find myself in London. The next six months saw me the sex prisoner of a man named Michael Young. He kept me hidden while he stole my innocence, my youth, my self. After he was done with me, I was sold & sent to Paris. For eight years I was passed along, sold to different men & women alike, all the while knowing I was smarter than all of them. I learned seven languages, & can play nearly any instrument you can name. Have you any idea what it's like? What it means to be imprisoned, knowing your captors are utterly stupid & if you gained enough resolve, could outwit them all?" She glanced knowingly at Sherlock. "I escaped when I knew I was done for. I escaped & returned here, to London, where my terror began. I, through a series of happenstance events, was discovered a writer & poet. I've been fortunate enough to make a living by doing something beautiful."  
Sherlock had been listening. John was transfixed.  
Sherlock was the first to speak. "A very riveting story, but I fail to see where we come in."  
"Michael Young is here. He's in London, somewhere, for the first time in almost five years. I want you to find him for me. It won't be easy, but I'm confident you two gentlemen are up to the task."  
"Whatever for?" Asked John.  
"Revenge," answered Sherlock.  
Inas smiled a sad smile. "I mean to kill him."  
John started at this. "You want us to find this man, find him so you can kill him? That's illegal, you know."  
"Yes. I am aware of that. I'm prepared to pay you 5,000 pounds. 2,500 now, 2,500 when you bring me the information on his whereabouts. I need you to be as specific as possible, including how long you expect him to remain at the locale you discover."  
"No. No way. We aren't going to..."  
"I'll take the case," Sherlock was shaking Inas's hand.  
"Thank you. Here's the information I currently have, as well as my contact information. Oh, & the check. I'm looking forward to hearing from you."  
Inas left the flat. John's mouth was hanging open, Sherlock Holmes was putting the papers recently handed to him in his coat pocket. He slipped on the overcoat & looked at John Watson.  
"Coming?"  
The left the flat without another word.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock Holmes & John Watson got into a cab. It was amazing how, just a few weeks back, Sherlock couldn't have done such a thing. People tire easily. They get on with their lives. A man that was dead & then not, didn't seem to excite people the way one would think it would.  
"Why are we doing this?" Dr. Watson wasn't amused. He found this case repellent, & truly, wanted nothing to do with it.  
"Money is a good a reason as any."  
"Since when do you care about having money?"  
"Since I didn't have any for six weeks. Besides, we haven't been working, & the flat is getting rather dull. It's good to get out, enjoy London."  
"We are aiding a murder. How can this be ok with you?"  
"I didn't say it was ok."  
John was left muted. "Where are we going?"  
"Library."  
"What?"  
"Old articles from Derbyshire. I need more information. It'll lead us to Young."  
They entered the London Library & headed towards the periodical section. Sherlock went up to the desk to inquire about microfiched newspaper articles from Derbyshire. John began perusing the shelves of current magazines. When he turned, the detective was gone.  
"Excuse me. That man, he was just here..."  
"He's over there," said the librarian. He was pointing to a computer table.  
Sherlock was intently looking at the screen, reading whatever was on it with intensity.  
"Find anything?"  
"Here's the incident Inas was referring to. Bloodbath. Sixteen year old daughter's body was never found. She was telling the truth."  
"Did you doubt her? Pretty awful story to fabricate. And then the sex trade bit."  
"It wasn't that I doubted her, exactly. But here, we have a name."  
John looked at what Sherlock was pointing to. He read the first few lines:  
_A gory scene was to be found on Boothgate Road in Belper this morning. Four children & two adults were slaughtered, execution style in their country farmhouse. Police officials were unavailable for comment, but a neighbor reported hearing a disturbance around or shortly after midnight. "I awoke to a scream. It was eerie, & I went downstairs. We live pretty far from anyone except the Eliots, so I thought that perhaps one of the young ones had a bad dream..."_  
"Eliot. That's her last name," said John.  
"We're off to Belper."

The farmhouse was large, surrounded by green waves of hills & grass. The Peak District hung in the background. It was lovely, just as Inas had said; stone, with coved windows all around. Sherlock & John approached the house. It appeared vacant.  
"Sherlock? What are we doing? This incident happened well over a decade ago. Very likely longer."  
"Just peeking about. There. See it?"  
He was pointing to a smaller house, only about 20 yards from the farmhouse. It too was stone, but much less grand. Sherlock walked up to it, & knocked on the door.  
An old lady answered. She appeared to be blind, or else quite nearly.  
"Hello? Can I help you?"  
Sherlock began going on about directions, pretending to have lost his way, & oh, he & his friend were so tired & hungry, could you let us in for a cup of tea or coffee?  
She introduced herself. "Elizabeth Wigginton. I've lived here my entire life, you know."  
"It's lovely country here." At least Sherlock sounded sincere.  
"It is," she agreed.  
"Safe too, I imagine. Tucked away as you are."  
"Yes..." There was a far away look that found its way to her face.  
"I didn't say anything to upset you?"  
"No. No. I just, well, it is safe, mostly. There was only ever one thing that happened. Quite an awful thing. About 18 years ago, now."  
"What happened, if you don't mind my asking. I'm such a sucker for local lore."  
"No. Well, it was a rather nasty business. Six people dead, four young ones. Tragedy, really, & they never found her body..." A shiver ran through the old lady.  
Sherlock leaned in. "Whose body?"  
"Jane's. Sixteen, poor girl. I can't imagine..." Her voice trailed off. It mattered but little. Sherlock & John had left as soon as she uttered the name "Jane."


	7. Chapter 7

"So, how did you know her name was a fake?" John hadn't been convinced she was telling the truth, but didn't assume she was lying, either.  
"How many people do you know that give their name's meaning when you meet them? No one does that, unless they had chosen it for themselves."  
Sherlock was staring out the window of his flat. The case was simple enough, the problem before him now was a moral one. Jumping off of Bart's roof had changed him, the realization that he honestly cared for people, however adamantly he denied it, changed him. So, given these facts, could he, in turn, help someone he barely knew? He didn't really care about her, but perhaps that wasn't the point. She was a human being, hurt, lost & alone. Perhaps that could be enough.  
Lost as Sherlock was in his reverie, John coughed to bring him back. "What are we doing, then? Waiting for Michael Young to find us?"  
"I just texted him about 10 minutes ago."  
"Sorry, what?"  
"Texted him. Told him to meet us, with Inas, in 45 minutes "  
"How on earth did you..."  
"I posted to a chat room that I know some of my network frequents about Jane Eliot. Once I received an inquiry, I deduced it was him & made arrangements."  
"How can you know it's Young? Not just some nutter?"  
"Firstly, Young is a nutter. Secondly, he surely knew that Inas had escaped, so he'd want to know her whereabouts. He would be one of the few people alive that knows her real name. Makes logical sense he'd want to meet her & dispose of her."  
John stopped dead. He stared at Sherlock. "Hang on. You're sending Inas there to meet him, knowing he'll want to kill her? What in the hell is the matter with you?"  
"Do you think, for one moment, that I'm going to allow that?" Sherlock was putting on his overcoat. "Surely, if you've learned anything about me since I've returned, is that I've developed some semblance of moral obligation."  
John was putting on his coat as well. "And what have you done to suggest that?"  
"I smile more."


	8. Chapter 8

Michael Young was a strange bloke. Always armed, always with at least two armed guards, nearly always high on cocaine. He should've been quite wealthy, but his guilt & paranoia prevented it. Sure, he felt guilty. He wasn't a heartless machine. He sold young boys & girls to high paying clients to do, well, whatever they liked to them. He promised himself that 15 would be the absolute youngest he'd take, & rationalized it by telling himself that arranged marriages of kids as young as 12 had taken place for centuries. Not terribly different than what he did. No, not at all different if one thinks about it.  
His shock at the news that Jane Eliot was alive & free was unparalleled. His underground persona let the one that deigned to bring him such news let them know the extent of his displeasure. If she found him, he'd be put in prison, no doubt. She had been ever so slightly different than others he had taken. Shut off. No tears. Always looked at him straight on, in the eye. He would meet her, ask her how she escaped so as to prevent future such incidents, & shoot her in the face.

"Sherlock, how do homeless people have chat rooms they frequent?"  
"Since the library has free computer access. Really John, you accuse me of being narrow minded."  
"Oh. Well, I didn't mean anything by it. So...we're going to stop Young? Where's Inas?"  
"On her way to meet him as well."  
"Right. Of course she is."  
"Problem?"  
"I thought you were smiling more. Why are you sending her there?"  
"Because she requires closure. A new start." Sherlock looked reflective.  
"Since when do you care about what other people require? Especially about what their emotions require?"  
"Since I found my smile. Call it an experiment. If it fails, you can scoff."  
"I'll scoff anyhow, regardless." John laughed. He was pleased to see his friend exhibiting some empathy, however much it caused him disquiet.

The locale for the meeting was an abandoned warehouse, a bit north of London, not far from the Thames. Sherlock & John paid the cabbie & went inside, gun at the ready in his pocket, Sherlock surveyed the dark space.  
"Pretty trite, Sherlock. An abandoned warehouse? At night? Is there dynamite about so as to ensure a colorful explosion when the bad guys attempt an escape?"  
"Not my idea. Young is obviously a glutton for theatrics."  
The pair crept along the outside of the warehouse. Sherlock assumed a position quite hidden from street view. He got out his mobile, & sent a text, then another. He then stood, watching the street.  
"What are we waiting for?" John hissed.  
"Inas."  
At that, a cab drove up, & parked in front of the building. A tall figure, dressed in black emerged. She was carrying a heavy bag. She walked into the warehouse with her head held high, long strides with her legs, her heeled boots clicking loudly on the pavement. Sherlock motioned for John to follow. They went around the back, into a small door that was unobservable to anyone but those that might be looking for it.

Inas felt her pulse racing. She was filled with adrenaline & nerves. Would she die tonight? Probably. It mattered not. She had spent her entire adult life planning on killing this one man, letting him know that she survived before she did it. Somehow, he became the symbol of all of her suffering. He was the reason for her bruises & fear. If she snuffed out his life, it would erase her history. Merely imprisoning him wouldn't suffice. He needed to be erased. It would make her past disappear. If she died, that would be just as effective.  
She walked into the warehouse, feeling empowered. Never had her mind feel in such stark contrast to her body. When she was brutalized, she would leave her body. Now, she was very much aware of it, it was jittery & pulsating. Her mind was calm & serene.

"Michael." She couldn't see anyone. She knew they were here.  
"Jane Eliot."  
"Inas Inverness. Had to change it, you know."  
"Been quite a long while." Young stepped out of the shadows. He looked old, a bit shorter. Bald.  
"Too long. We are long overdo for a chat."  
"Indeed. How did you manage it?"  
"I'm not telling you. It's enough that you know that I did..."  
She pulled out her gun & shot at him. Instantly, shots were heard banging throughout the cavernous space. Sherlock & John came racing in, pistols pointing all around.  
"Happened much quicker than I thought. Help her, John. I'm going after Young."  
Sherlock ran outside. The two cars were still parked - they escaped on foot. Where the hell was Lestrade? He texted him over 10 minutes ago. He ran along the bank, observing some branches on some hedges recently broken. He heard some male voices a few yards ahead of him.  
"Michael? You alright?  
Young was hurt. Inas must've hit him.  
"I told you to put me in the car. You know I can't walk far like this."  
They heard sirens in the background.  
"Cops. Here - in these hedges here."  
"Wouldn't do that. If they bring helicopters to scan, you'll be discovered."  
The two men pointed their guns at Sherlock Holmes. He was pointing his at Young.  
"Who the hell are you?" Young demanded.  
"Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to make your acquaintance."  
"Are you? I wouldn't count on that pleasure lasting much longer."  
"No." Sherlock shot the two men standing aside Young in the legs, causing them to topple over.  
"Think I have your attention now." Sherlock pointed his gun at Young while collecting the weapons of the guards on the ground.  
Young had long since lost his weapon, so he stood there, looking terrified.  
"Not used to this, I imagine."  
"Not really, I keep a low profile. Never get entangled much. Not good for business." His body was quaking, his right side, bleeding.  
"No. I wouldn't think so."  
They heard voices behind them. Detective Inspector Lestrade was on his way over to the bank. Michael Young slumped to the ground, weeping & shaking.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock & Detective Lestrade walked back to the warehouse. Emergency officials were everywhere.  
Inas was being carried out on a stretcher. Sherlock went up to John.  
"Is she alright?"  
"She kept saying "No"...not sure what that was about. She got hit in her shoulder, left side. A few inches further down & she'd be dead."  
"We're going to go to hospital, follow along. Make sure she gets out of surgery without incident."

Sherlock & John were in the cafeteria, sipping coffee after a long evening.  
"We haven't discussed much."  
Sherlock looked up. "Hmm?"  
"Well, I'm moving out in a week. You're chasing after this woman. What's gong on in that head of yours?"  
"I'm not chasing her. I'm getting paid $5,000 pounds. Yes, you're moving out. Not much I can do about that. If you want to live your life with Mary, much as I don't understand, so be it."  
"I love her, Sherlock. Despite the fact that you don't understand that type of feeling, it exists."  
"I understand. You'll remain my business partner. You'll become her life partner. I need a flat mate."  
A doctor came in, looking right at the pair.  
"You here for..."  
"Inas. Yes. Is she done?"  
"She is. Are you family?"  
Sherlock smiled. "No. She owes me money."  
He got up & went to find the recovery area, John laughed at the doctor as if Sherlock was being utterly stupid.

She laid there, feeling more lost & helpless than she had ever done on her life. Sherlock Holmes knocked on the door & entered.  
"How are you feeling?"  
Inas glared at him. "How could you? Is he alive?"  
"Yes. He's still in surgery. He'll be whisked away as soon as he's recovered. You're a rather good shot."  
"Humph."  
"Pouting doesn't suit you."  
"No? You know, I honestly don't care."  
"What's the matter?"  
"What's the matter? How can you ask me such a thing?! I was going to kill him. He received a flesh wound. I wish I were dead."  
"Now, don't be ridiculous. He'll receive his due. Prison is not something Michael Young ever saw in his future,"  
Inas didn't respond. She looked away, a few tears falling down her cheeks.  
"You stole it from me," she finally said. "Stole me my revenge. It's all I wanted. And now it's gone, I have nothing,"  
"You know, we are in similar situations. You lost something, I've lost something."  
Inas looked at him.  
"I had been recovering from an unfortunate event when you came to my flat the other day. To make things more interesting, John, my flat mate & partner, business partner," Sherlock looked meaningfully at Inas. "He's moving out. I find myself in a situation that I did not anticipate."  
"Yes?"  
"Well, perhaps you'd consider becoming my flat mate?"  
"I don't think..."  
"Look. I'm not interested in anything besides your rent. Perhaps some company occasionally. Since I don't abhor you personally, I think you'd be a perfect candidate."  
"I don't know...I have a flat. I don't know you, Mr. Holmes. You know a rather lot about me,"  
"Well, lets just try it out, see how things go. You might find my company not so terrible after a stint. If you hate it, you can move back out."  
He got up to leave the hospital room.  
"Oh, I play the violin quite a bit,"  
"So do I." She smiled. Perhaps he has a point. It might not be so terrible. No strings. Just rent.  
"I have one other loose end to clear up. I'll stop by in the morning to see how you are doing."

The lab was dark. Molly Hooper was putting on her overcoat, humming softly to herself. She smiled, it was a tune her dad would sing when he was gardening.  
"It's funny what one does when one thinks no one is watching."  
Molly started.  
"Sherlock! You're always doing that. What are you doing here?"  
"It's been a rather long day. I really am in need of some coffee."  
How rude. He came here so I could fetch him some free coffee.  
"Oh. Well, I was actually just leaving. A bit tired, Sherlock. Can't it wait until tomorrow?"  
"Actually, no. I owe you a coffee, Molly. My treat. And not the slop they make here."  
"Oh...I...I see. Ok."  
He held the door for her, & as dark as it was, she spied a smile covering his face.


End file.
